


The Musicians' Duet

by cwags_7



Category: Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-08
Updated: 2014-05-08
Packaged: 2018-01-24 01:00:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1585853
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cwags_7/pseuds/cwags_7
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-Reichenbach. Sherlock's gone again and Molly copes the only way she can.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Musicians' Duet

Music – the first thing Sherlock heard as he unlocked the door to Molly's building. Music? He checked his watch. 2 a.m. Who is playing music at 2 a.m.?

It was piano music. The musician inside him appreciated the haunting, mournful (even angry?) quality beneath the deceptive happiness indicated by the high sharps in the treble clef. He could tell from the lack of static and the tiny mistakes that crept into the tune that the music was most likely not a recording. Someone was actually playing the piano at 2 a.m.

The notes floated down the stairs to meet Sherlock as he climbed slowly, avoiding the creaky floorboards. He knew it would be better if Molly didn't discover him returning at 2 a.m. after being gone for a week. He cringed as he realized he had left no note. Yes, it would most definitely be better to leave the eventual unpleasantries till the next morning.

Sherlock stopped outside the door to Molly's flat. Molly? The music emanated from behind the worn wooden door. Molly. Molly is playing the piano.

What he expected to find as he opened the door was an anxious Molly, playing nervously, perhaps eyes rimmed in red from sleep deprivation, waiting to jump at the faintest sound of the door opening. What he found surprised him. Surprise? Sherlock Holmes did not feel surprise. Sherlock Holmes did not feel at all.

Molly was seated at the old upright in the corner of her tiny flat, back to him, dressed in pajamas with her hair pulled back into a ponytail that was slowly escaping from its hair tie. She was bent forward over the piano keys, swaying, crooning to the instrument as if it was a beloved child. And all the while, she played, fingers mourning and weeping and dancing across black and white.

He removed his coat and scarf and laid them across the sofa, careful not to make any noise that would alert her to his presence, so he could avoid the inevitable yelling, crying, and "Where have you been?" At least, that was what his brain told him. But his heart told him that he didn't want her to stop playing. He wanted to hear her music.

Heart? Sherlock Holmes had been reliably informed that he did not possess one. But something must have made him do it – some unknown force that caused him to pull his violin out of its battered case and bring it to his shoulder, bow poised above the taut strings.

Something must have made him approach her, and lean towards the music, formulating a suitable accompaniment in his head. He saw her stiffen as she caught sight of him out of the corner of her eye. It was then that he noticed the shiny cheeks, and the rivulets of tears streaking down her face while she played.

Something made him draw the bow across the strings, adding whispered, paper-thin notes to the river of sound. I am sorry, he played softly, hesitantly. Forgive me.

The piano sighed resignedly as the notes became gentler and less painful. 

I will always forgive you.

The consulting detective and the pathologist played well into the early morning, and the rain fell outside the window, lending percussion to their symphony.


End file.
